Massacre
by MartyrsMistress
Summary: Reign Oneshot/AU He had actually done it. He was actually going to subdue his wife and queen to a life his mother had lolloped through. He was actually going through with this.


Mary took long steps over the lush green grass. Her golden satin heels sunk into the mud, blue floral lace gown trailing on the grass. Her chest heaved, her breaths short and sharp. A hand was placed over her bodice, she tried to calm her racing heart and debilitating anxiety. It did little to soothe. Her feet kept walking, walking and walking and walking until she was out of sight of the castle and surrounded by woodlands. One of Court's lakes lay in front of her, mirroring the lowering sun and the purple clouds. Her breath echoed in her ears, heart thumping in her chest. She gripped the floral lace of her skirts, another hand wiping her damp cheeks.

He had actually done it. He was actually going to subdue his wife and queen to a life his mother had lolloped through. He was actually going through with this.

How could he? She thought, silently asking the setting sun. As much as she despised the fact that he slept with Lola in Paris, she may be able to get over it. But this? How could she get over this? How could she -they- adapt to this?

The boy was going to be claimed. Gifted lands and titles and never able to be gone from her life. Until she died, every day she would wake up to the little bastard belonging to her husband and friend running around her court whilst she remained barren and dry.

Everybody would know. They would know it was because of her that they couldn't ever have a child. She would be in danger, and thus Scotland hung in the balance. She wasn't like Catherine. She couldn't wait a decade to have a son. She may not even ever have a son. She wouldn't ever have a son. Her royal blood was so much more desired than that of the Medici. All Catherine was by blood was an orphaned duchess that many would like to see without a head. But she? A Queen by blood, she was in so much more danger. There were many more that would lust to see her death.

And Francis knew this. He was the King of Scotland. Then why would he put her Queen and the country in danger all because he wanted one little bastard to have a little more in the bank? That child was nothing, he would live out the rest of his life scorned and hated by so many and so much. But he was going to be the thing that dissolved the royal marriage and may as well took his Queen's head whilst he was at it.

If Knox found out -which he would- then he would take her throne and most likely her head. Then where would Scotland be? English Catholics? French Catholics? Even just Scottish or French royalists. Her head would be removed, people would revolt. Revenge for revenge for revenge. A bloody stalemate that would turn from a civil war into an international war. Why would he do this?

Her tears grew heavier as her hand slipped from her cheek to the back of her neck. How long would it remain untainted? How long would the skin remain in tact? Her hand moved upwards to the base of her skull. How long would it be there, connected to her shoulders?

"Mary." a voice said. She jumped, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. She turned around and saw Francis standing there. His blue eyes were bright against the darkness of the sky. When did it get dark? How long had she been out there?

"Francis." the word came out choked. He didn't seem to notice it.

"We've been looking all over the castle for you, have you been here the entire time?" the King of France asked.

"I have."

"Whatever for? We are King and Queen, after all." Francis said, his head leaning to one side.

That's rich, coming from the man who abandoned his Queen and castle to run off into plague stricken lands, you were a King then, weren't you? Mary inwardly thought. But she settled upon "I needed a few moments to collect my thoughts." as her response to her husband.

"What of?"

"You having a baby with my Lady for a start." Mary spat, turning from him and back to the water. She couldn't look at him.

"Is that what this is about?" he questioned. Mary shot him a look. How she hated being vulnerable, and for some reason now, being vulnerable in front of him was driving her to the point of insanity.

"What else could it be about?" Mary snapped, turning to face him head on. "Don't yup understand what you did? You not only betrayed me, but you got my best friend pregnant! I'm going to have to wake up every day of my wife with the knowledge that I didn't bare you your first born! I may not even be able to birth you a child at all! And if I cannot bare children, then the next trip I am going to be taking is to the scaffold! Are you that ignorant to my strife?" she cried out, stepping away from him as he reached out for her.

"Mary, please. It won't come to that! I'll protect you, from everything and every threat that Lola and I's son may cause. Nothing will happen to you, just tell me what you want me to do to repair what I have broken and I will! I swear it!" he replied.

She shook her head. "No, Francis. You don't know that and you can't. John Knox will use my baroness and your bastard to take my head, any vulnerability I have will be exploited tenfold. I will loose my head because you want to be sentimental." she sniffled. "I can't get pregnant. I can't even give you a politically useless daughter, let alone a son. I can't give you a child and that will be my destruction! And you've illuminated my weakness to the world and expect me to stand by and smile as you put my life and my country in danger." she turned around.

"Please, let's just get you inside. It's freezing out here, we can talk about what's bothering you once you've eaten and drank, okay?" Francis tried again. Mary shook her head, twisting her wrist from his grip.

Is it? Mary thought to herself. In truth, the Queen of Scotland and France felt rather hot.

"Please, leave me me be. I want to be alone now." Mary tried to plead.

"You'll never be alone, you have me." he tried to plead back to his wife, his heart aching at the sight of tears in her pretty, dark eyes. Francis tried to reach over and grasp her wrist again and Mary jerked back again. This time, his pain was replaced by confusion as he watched Mary's eyes become glazed over.

"Mary?" he asked. This time, the Queen of Scotland and France allowed him to come closer to her. She didn't do anything at all. Just stood there. Francis frowned at the sudden change in his wife's countenance.

"Darling," he tried, placing a large, warm hand upon his wife's cheek. Mary swallowed thickly, turning up to look at him. "you're burning up." he informed her, his heart starting to race. The plague hadn't completley eradicated itself just yet, people still died in their court because of the disease, servants and nobles alike. And to see her, now illuminated by the moonlight, pale and feverish, it startled him.

Francis drew in a sharp breath, watched her stagger back a step. He wrapped an arm around her waist as she continued still to get away from him. The hand left her wrist and rose to her brow. His own furrowed in alarm as he felt -truly- just how feverish his wife actually was.

"Mary." he tried to get her attention. But, she said nothing. Francis watched, helplessly, as the colour drained from his wife's face even further, the temperature of her skin grow and grow until a sweat appeared upon her brow. The glazed over look in her eyes increased and increased. He swallowed audibly, gripping her tighter as she started to stagger.

"Mary!" he yelped as her body suddenly collapsed. Her knees buckled and her head fell backwards in almost an arch, his arm the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground. Quickly, Francis hooked an arm around her knees and hoisted her up into his arms, the other arm raising to cradle the back of her neck.

He rushed back into the court -promptly ignoring the gasps of various courtiers- and ordered for his mother, his wife's ladies and Nostradamus, storming over towards his chambers where all but the Queen Mother awaited them.

The ladies squealed in alarm as they saw their Queen hanging limply in their King's arms, her skin pale and clammy and covered in sweat. The trifecta of noble women rushed over as Francis kicked open the doors and made fast work of his chambers, laying his wife down on their bed. Mary didn't wake.

"Quickly, undress her," Nostradamus grumbled to the ladies, already mixing various tonics together. "place her in her bedclothes." he ordered. Lola, Greer and Kenna set to work, unlacing Mary's silver satin gown with light blue flowers and lace with trembling fingers when they felt how hot the Queen of Scotland actually was, felt the slickness of her sweat and the wheeze of her breath.

Francis watched as the layers of fine clothes came away until his wife was situated in a white satin nightgown. He matched right up to the bed, taking her hand in his as Nostradamus set to work, forcing various tonics down her throat whilst retracting her blood from the back of her hand.

"What are you doing?" Francis asked in alarm, seeing the crimson liquid upon his wife's dainty hand.

"I must let out the blood, highness. It could cause Her Majesty harm." Francis bit his lip as more and more of the blood left the Queen's palm and fell into a small bucket. He held the other hand, pressing rapid kisses onto the fiery skin. He kissed her knuckles, murmuring his love for her, over and over. And, praying to God if he might save her from whatever plagued her body and threatened to take her from him forever.

Francis paced the length of the corner of his chambers that his mother had forced him inside whilst Nostradamus worked. He gripped his long, blonde curls in tight fists as if that would bring health to his Queen or lessen the guilt in his heart. He turned to the bed in which his wife lay and his physician worked tirelessly. His mother knelt at the side of the bed, holding his wife's hand, a tenderness unusual from the Queen Mother. She had always hated Mary, even when she was a child, even more so when she wed her son.

He felt helpless as he watched his wife. The normal, gorgeous, porcelain skin she bore was now replaced by a chalky white that spoke of ill health. It was topped by a thick layer of sweat that stuck her hair to her face and her gown to her skin. Shining, silky, raven locks were replaced by a murky brown, matted and ill. She inhaled slowly, but it was an inhale all the same.

Nostradamus poured tonic after tonic after tonic down his wife's throat, the small vials of green, blue, clear and red creating a worrying collection on one of the bedside tables. He bit his lip when he saw the glint of a blade, cringed when he saw scarlet waves quickly appear onto the chalky skin. The colour of the skin made the blood seem brighter. He watched it intently as Nostradamus mopped it away and bandaged the hand he kept cutting into. It'd been three days, and still, nothing.

He collected his things and bowed out. Catherine waved her son over. He followed obediently.

"Francis, come." she ordered.

Within a flash, the King was at the Queen's side. He kissed her palm and stroked the matted strands of hair from her pretty face that seemed so much thinner than just a trifecta of days ago. He could see her cheekbones prominently through her skin. Her entire body seemed thinner, he noted.

"What's wrong with her?" he whispered onto the skin of his wife's hand. Tears burned his eyes as he felt the heat of her skin.

"It's not the plague. She would've died by now if it was." Catherine bluntly stated. Francis sucked in a breath.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked again.

"He doesn't know." she looked so tenderly at Mary that it startled him. She had only shown that tenderness to the children of her blood. Not Mary, nor Phillip. Damn sure not Sebastian. Yet, here she was, staring down at Mary as if she was her own daughter. "He's running tests, but can't find what is wrong." she stated.

He sat in silence, holding his wife's hand, stroking her hair back. She didn't respond for several minutes, before his heart stopped when Mary let out a moan and a deep inhale, and turned into his touch.

"Mary?!" he held her hand tighter. "Darling, can you hear me?"

"She's been doing that for hours. Nostradamus is confident she's not awake when it happens." Catherine softly stated. Francis sighed.

"I just want to know what is wrong with her." he said, so earnestly, using that same tone he had done when he was a child and she was taken away from him. "How I can help her." he looked deep into her face. She did nothing. "Why she won't wake up. It's been days, mother." he stated.

"I am aware." she stated sadly. "We must trust Nostradamus, Francis."

Francis' head snapped up from the soft bed beneath his forehead as the door slammed open. Sparing a few moments to observe the sleeping forms of his mother and wife -his mother curled up to his wife, yet his wife slept still- before sparing a glance at the intruder. His hand went to his hip as a reflex to grasp at the sword he still kept at his shoulder, but removed it when he saw it merely Nostradamus. The King looked back to the Queen. Her skin was paler than the soft material of her gown, and she breathed in shallow breaths. But a breath nonetheless.

"Nostradamus," Francis noted. "what is it?" he asked, turning to his physician.

"Please, you must do something for her." Greer begged, her eyes drowned in the dark circles around them. Francis jumped, seeing her standing by the window. He remembered that the ladies had spent the night caring for the Queen. Kenna and Lola now rested, but Greer, easily the most loyal, stayed with her Queen. "It's been days. She's no better than when she collapsed. You must do something, Nostradamus." she finished, worriedly holding her friends' hand as said friends' husband paced around the room. Nostradamus took another vial and poured it into Mary's mouth. The Lady had been up with Mary the entire night, worrying insistently as news of Mary's condition had reached her. Whilst she'd responded to some medications, that small glimmer of hope had died out, and the fever had worsened again.

Francis -who had not slept in almost three days at that point- had to have something poured into his wine the night before. His brother had continuously told him that he should leave and rest, bathe and eat, see his son or try and soothe the frantic courtiers who thought the woman who could give France an Imperial heir and England was slipping from them. But, his protests of Francis' whereabouts fell on def ears. So much so that when he suggested going to his chambers to sleep, Francis had nearly hit him. You won't do any good standing over them as they work, Bash had told him, speaking as if he was talking to a disobedient child. It had been a miracle that the sedation had actually worked. The King had spent a few hours draped over a settee near the fire the night before, Greer and Kenna taking turns sleeping and keeping watch, alerting the physicians at every given opportunity.

"I am not sure what do to, Lady Greer. I can find no signs of infection despite the fever, I have checked for everything. Even poison." he added.

"You think my wife is being poisoned?!" came the quick response of the King of France, who had became relentless over the past few hours. Agitation over the drama of the mother of his bastard child and worry for the mother of his legitimate heir had kept him on edge, especially because Lola still was in the position that she was and Mary was still unconscious.

"I do not. I can find no traces of it. Leeching has done us no favours, nor has blood letting. My Empress' fever still is high," he placed the back of his palm and fingers across Mary's forehead. "and she shows no signs of awaking anytime soon. All we can do is attempt to lower the never and maintain liquid in her system." Nostradamus finished, nodding to the King of France and his mother, dismissing himself with a swift 'ma'am' to Greer, walking out the door.

"Do you think she will wake?" Greer wondered.

"I pray she does." Francis admitted. "For if she does not." he turned to her, gripping her hand tighter. "I don't know what I'll do."

"Any changes, Majesty?" Kenna whispered, coming into the darkened chambers that held only the King and Queen of France and Nostradamus. After Catherine had awoke, she had been the one trying to soothe the nobles about the King and sickened Queen, and practically running France in the meantime. Marie de Guise had been notified about the state of her daughter, and had been eager to make no mention of the Queen of Scotland's welfare until she either died or recovered.

The King looked awful. His eyes were red rimmed from the latest negative turn. His face was pale, all dark circles and ashen skin. Blonde curls were unruly, falling in a million different directions. His clothes were askew and wrinkled, doublet long since forgotten on the back of a near bye chair. He looked exhausted and thin, arguably more than his wife did.

"She's just laying there. She won't wake up, no matter what Nostradamus tries." he added, pressing a kiss to the back of her hot hand, as if trying to breathe life back into it.

"Court knows that she's unresponsive." Greer sighed, coming into the room and over to Mary, once she had been let down by Nostradamus, running her fingers through Mary's long locks. Mary's favourite Lady in waiting looked considerably better, all donned in a dark blue satin gown, long blonde locks pinned up at the sides, even if she was dressed a might less fancily than she usually was. No jewellery and no head piece, no high heeled shoes and no makeup. She looked younger than usual, but worry for Mary had aged her tenfold.

"Catherine is trying to stifle their concerns, sating that it's simply just exhaustion and stress, but we know it's more than that."she finished, running her fingertips over Mary's bare arm. The skin burned to the touch. She bit her lip silently, feeling the fever that had worsened since she left before breakfast.

"Yes, it is." he said, softly. "God only knows what's ailing her." he finished, looking down at the face of his slumbering beauty. She looked so serene yet sickly, exhausted yet radiant. Raven coloured waves were splayed all over the white satin pillows. Her face was a chalky white -a stark contract to the usual glowing porcelain- and there were dark circles around her eyes. The lids were gently closed, face and body thinner than usual. She looked so small in that bed, clothed only in a white silk night gown.

Greer said nothing, simply dunk another piece of cloth into a bowl of cold water, dragging it over Mary's forehead. The Empress did nothing in response. Greer bit her lip in worry.

"She's so warm." she said, her voice quiet.

"Her fever's worsened over the last few hours." Francis nodded. "She worsened again at luncheon. The physicians still don't know what to do. They can find no signs of infection, nor of illness. All they can do is keep giving her vials, broth and water, try to keep her cool. They don't know how to wake her up." he looked deeply into her slumbering face, running his spare hand down her arm, settling on her cheek.

"She will wake up, Francis." Greer started. "She has to."

"Francis! Nostradamus!" Baroness Kenna de Portiers cried out, bringing the attention of both the men in the large chambers. Francis inhaled sharply with the surprise, walking swiftly over towards his sister in law and wife. Half of him expected her to be awake, but he was bitterly disappointed when she stayed still. Yet, the entirety of his being was startled when he saw blood dripping from her nose and pooling at her lips, falling down the sides and her chin, decorating her neck in the crimson.

He gasped aloud as Nostradamus quickly got to work. He wiped the blood and checked her mouth and nose frantically, rubbing all sorts of creams onto the Queen. Francis stood back in shock as Kenna began to cry out.

"Catherine!" she cried. "It has to be Catherine!" she cried out. "Remember that horrid night with the Neapolitan Count Vincent?" she asked. "The witch poisoned his men and they bled from the nose! It has to be her!" she yelped out.

"Don't be ridiculous." Francis breathed, in denial, although his half sister in law made quite a good case. "She worries for my wife, sat by her bedside for hours." he shook his head, blonde curls bouncing around his head with the movement.

"That's when she could've done it! You know how much Catherine hates her, Francis. Hell, the only reason she told you to claim Lola's bastard was because she knew it would hurt Mary and put her in danger!" Kenna gasped out, her small fists balling in fury.

"No, it can't be. It can't be." he breathed.

"Couldn't it?"

Mary, Queen of Scotland and France hovers between life and death for three daysmore, never gaining full consciousness after a vicious fever ravages her body in an even more dangerous degree than before. The days are long, none of which the Queen is alone. She is almost always with the physician, yet never without the King. After banishing his mother to the dungeon and leaving it to his half brother to settle the nobles and the country, the King's entire universe becomes the four walls of his bedchambers. His earth was made up out of the four poster bed in which his sun and his moon and his light lay upon.

Three long days pass, in which Francis mourns in preperation of the worst. After none of the symptoms passing for any of Nostradamus' treatements, he gives the King the grave news that there is now nothing else that can be done. Either the Queen will awake, or she will not. The King had nearly drawn a blade towards the seer after hearing the news. He cried near the body of the love of his life, who lies as still as death on the same bed where days earlier they had been planning the future of France and Scotland, providing that the coup for his father would be successful. A small part of Francis thinks, during these long, long days, that he hates the child that he put in his wife's lady's belly. For being the thing that provided him reason to run from the castle and from her. For hurting Mary, for potentially taking her away from him forever -in one way, or another-, and he hates himself too, for being the one to give her reason to worry. For being the culprit of this fever and the stress and the fear and the loneliness. He was the one who put her in harms way when he was the one meant to protect her from all ills. Instead, he kneels at the bed, helpless, he waits with baited breath by her side for hours upon hours, day after day, as she fights her own battle to find her way back to him, and just prays for more time, one more minute, one more second, with his Mary.

His brother and his best friend, even Lola, try to get their King to eat more than morsels sent in at meal times. To sleep in a bed, not at his wife's side with a hand upon her feverish chest to make sure it still rose and fell with every shallow, heaved breath. They try to convince him to leave Mary's side for even a minute for his own health, yet their words fall upon deaf ears each and every time. How could he think of himself before her, again? Hadn't he already proved to them that he didn't care about his own health after he ran into the plague to save his child?

He watched the weak rise and fall of Mary's chest, ears strain to hear the breathing she let out. He reassures himself that she's still here, his hand wrapped around her own, feeling her pulse if ever he couldn't hear the breath or see the fall. Sebastian is given the task of ruling France, whilst Leith is tasked with subduing Narciesse and the Protestant problems. Lola becomes both mother and father to her child, barred from the chambers by none other than Francis himself. The only people that were permitted to see her was himself, Nostradamus and Kenna and Greer. Although France and Scotland and her isles may be on the verge of losing their queen, but if they do, they may lose their king as well.

And then, all of a sudden, things take a turn for the better. The Queen's breath from her nose is louder and the rise and fall of her chest is firmer. Her fever lessens and sweat appears on her brow. She doesn't shiver, nor does she whimper. She rests for a few, tense minutes;

until her eyes finally flutter open.

Her husbands' beaming, exhausted face is the first thing she sees. He attacks her lips with his own and laughs in joy at her, once again returned to him.

"What's wrong with me, Nostradamus?" the Queen of Scotland asks, a week after regaining consciousness and strength.

"Nothing at all, my Queen." the court seer and physician smiles. "You are with child."


End file.
